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MURDER MYSTERY Premium Collection - 15 Ultimate Whodunit Tales in One Single Volume The Imperfect Crime, Murder at Monte Carlo, The Avenger, The Cinema Murder, Michel's Evil Deeds, The Wicked Marquis, The Survivor, The Man Without Nerves... von Oppenheim, E. Phillips (eBook)

  • Erscheinungsdatum: 01.02.2016
  • Verlag: e-artnow
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MURDER MYSTERY Premium Collection - 15 Ultimate Whodunit Tales in One Single Volume

This carefully crafted ebook: 'MURDER MYSTERY Premium Collection - 15 Ultimate Whodunit Tales in One Single Volume' is formatted for your eReader with a functional and detailed table of contents. This thriller collection brings to you some of Oppenheim's finest murder mysteries to keep you at your toes: The Evil Shepherd Murder at Monte Carlo, or Wolves Amongst the Honey The Glenlitten Murder The Cinema Murder The Murder of William Blessing Curious Happenings to the Rooke Legatees The Malefactor Michael's Evil Deeds The Peer and the Women The Wicked Marquis The Man Whom Nobody Liked The Imperfect Crime The Avenger The Survivor The Man Without Nerves The Man Who Changed His Plea E. Phillips Oppenheim, the Prince of Storytellers (1866-1946) was an internationally renowned author of mystery and espionage thrillers. His novels and short stories have all the elements of blood-racing adventure and intrigue and are precursors of modern-day spy fictions.


    Format: ePUB
    Kopierschutz: watermark
    Seitenzahl: 450
    Erscheinungsdatum: 01.02.2016
    Sprache: Englisch
    ISBN: 9788026849971
    Verlag: e-artnow
    Größe: 10443 kBytes
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MURDER MYSTERY Premium Collection - 15 Ultimate Whodunit Tales in One Single Volume


Table of Contents

The three diners lingered for only a short time over their dessert. Afterwards, they passed together into a very delightful library on the other side of the round, stone-paved hall. Hilditch excused himself for a moment.

"I have some cigars which I keep in my dressing-room," he explained, "and which I am anxious for you to try. There is an electric stove there and I can regulate the temperature."

He departed, closing the door behind him. Francis came a little further into the room. His hostess, who had subsided into an easy-chair and was holding a screen between her face and the fire, motioned him to, seat himself opposite. He did so without words. He felt curiously and ridiculously tongue-tied. He fell to studying the woman instead of attempting the banality of pointless speech. From the smooth gloss of her burnished hair, to the daintiness of her low, black brocaded shoes, she represented, so far as her physical and outward self were concerned, absolute perfection. No ornament was amiss, no line or curve of her figure other than perfectly graceful. Yet even the fire's glow which she had seemed to dread brought no flush of colour to her cheeks. Her appearance of complete lifelessness remained. It was as though some sort of crust had formed about her being, a condition which her very physical perfection seemed to render the more incomprehensible.

"You are surprised to see me here living with my husband, after what I told you yesterday afternoon?" she said calmly, breaking at last the silence which had reigned between them.

"I am," he admitted.

"It seems unnatural to you, I suppose?"


"You still believe all that I told you?"

"I must."

She looked at the door and raised her head a little, as though either listening or adjudging the time before her husband would return. Then she glanced across at him once more.

"Hatred," she said, "does not always drive away. Sometimes it attracts. Sometimes the person who hates can scarcely bear the other out of his sight. That is where hate and love are somewhat alike."

The room was warm but Francis was conscious of shivering. She raised her finger warningly. It seemed typical of the woman, somehow, that the message could not be conveyed by any glance or gesture.

"He is coming," she whispered.

Oliver Hilditch reappeared, carrying cigars wrapped in gold foil which he had brought with him from Cuba, the tobacco of which was a revelation to his guest. The two men smoked and sipped their coffee and brandy. The woman sat with half-closed eyes. It was obvious that Hilditch was still in the mood for speech.

"I will tell you, Mr. Ledsam," he said, "why I am so happy to have you here this evening. In the first place, I desire to tender you once more my thanks for your very brilliant efforts on my behalf. The very fact that I am able to offer you hospitality at all is without a doubt due to these."

"I only did what I was paid to do," Francis insisted, a little harshly. "You must remember that these things come in the day's work with us."

His host nodded.

"Naturally," he murmured. "There was another reason, too, why I was anxious to meet you, Mr. Ledsam," he continued. "You have gathered already that I am something of a crank. I have a profound detestation of all sentimentality and affected morals. It is a relief to me to come into contact with a man who is free from that bourgeois incubus to modern enterprise-a conscience."

"Is that your estimate of me?" Francis asked.

"Why not? You practise your profession in the criminal courts, do you not?"

"That is well-known," was the brief reply.

"What measure of conscience can a man have," Oliver Hilditch argued blandly, "who pleads for the innocent and guilty alike with the same simulated fervour? Confess, now, Mr. Ledsam

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